


The End of Gifts: Fringe Chapters

by con_affetto, merulanoir



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-11-24 04:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/con_affetto/pseuds/con_affetto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir
Summary: "When the world collapses, something new starts to emerge from the ruins of a life. Sometimes losing who you are means finding that again."Regis' life has irrevocably changed. Some around him take it well. Some... not so much.This story is a series of optional addendums to the work "The End of Gifts" by merulanoir.





	1. THE DREAMSCAPE (Between Chapters 4 and 5)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The End Of Gifts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20621750) by [merulanoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir). 

> As referenced above, this work is a direct response to "The End of Gifts" by merulanoir. It won't make much sense without it.
> 
> This work is also inspired by velvettodraws' lovely rendition of Dettlaff as a black wolf, as well as Meru's prior ideas of dreamscapes and how they relate to Witcher vampires.

_Orianna. _

The thought tickled her fangs, and Orianna clicked her teeth together to stop a yawn escaping her mouth. Human ladies were very concerned with their mouths, generally. They didn’t yawn in mixed company.

** _Orianna. _ ** _ We must speak. _

The thought pushed through, hazy but persistent. Orianna’s face pinched in annoyance. He must be truly desperate.

She yawned, and quickly raised her pale fingers over her mouth.

“Hazel.” The maid in the corner snapped to attention. “I’m retiring for the afternoon. Please ensure that I’m not disturbed.”

The maid dipped her head. “Of course, my lady.”

The vampire waited until Hazel’s footsteps reached the floor below, then toed off her slippers. _ Come then, _she bid the voice resting in her fangs.

Orianna was asleep before she hit the pillow.

* * *

There was a teak table (that always came first, a teak table with slender, deerlike legs). A crimson and gold embroidered cloth draped over its surface like a contented cat. A delicate china teacup rose from a matching saucer, dappled with tiny pink roses. The teak table sat on a floor panelled with aether-dark wood, dotted with wet, lichen-covered rocks. Somewhere in the unspecified background, a brook bubbled. That brook threaded through Orianna’s dreamscape, dropping further and further into caves, into the darkness and damp stone that reminded her of a home far, far away.

Dreamscapes were highly personal, and Orianna had been around long enough that she could slip into hers like a comfortable old robe. The aether-shaped landscapes were as unique as the vampires that dreamt them, but one element was shared among all vampires: their moons. All three of them.

She leaned back in her chair, sighing, and picked up the teacup. “Come, Dettlaff. I invite you in.”

Dettlaff’s dreamscape encroached on her own and something growled in the dark. On her teak table now sat a wooden doll in a roughly-sewn linen dress.

A shaggy black wolf stalked out from a new cave mouth. His pearl teeth glistened.

_ Where is Emiel? You must know, Orianna. If I find you had anything to do with it—_

“Take a civil shape if you want a civil conversation, Dettlaff.” Orianna blew the steam from her tea. “Emiel is not here.”

_ Emiel is not _ ** _anywhere_ ** _ . _

Dettlaff’s form billowed, black fur morphing into a dark doublet, unkempt hair, eyes set in deep shadow. “I cannot sense him,” he went on, anxiety spilling from his skin. “Emiel is—” His voice stuck in his throat, stuffed down by the weight of possibility.

Dettlaff was drowning in guilt. Good, Orianna thought savagely. He should.

All vampires were bound together through the aether, but the bond of blood transcended that. It was savage. Physical_ . Visceral, _ in a way that few things in this world could be. To break the bond, unforgivable. To strain it, unthinkable. To pull at the bond, fray it, to close your blood sibling off from your mind, your understanding, to _ run them through—_ for a human woman—

Orianna raised a hand to her mouth to cover her lengthening fangs.

“Looking at you pierces my lips, Dettlaff,” she said coldly. “Say what you mean. I do not wish to sleep a fortnight here with you.”

Dettlaff averted his eyes. “Emiel disappeared. I cannot sense him the aether. I cannot sense him through our bond. I cannot sense him at all.” He met Orianna’s eyes, desperate. “Is he… did someone…”

“The Elder has issued no edicts of anathema.” Orianna’s eyes were on her teacup, and she spun it in its saucer absently. “If Emiel is dead, there is only one hand that could have caused it.”

The implication hung ugly in the air. “Emiel would never do such a thing,” Dettlaff said, slowly.

Orianna’s lip curled. “And how would you know?”

Dettlaff’s claws cut into his palms, and he snarled. “_ You _ were his neighbor, Orianna! It was _ you _ who had a duty to ensure his care, and he yours. To let it happen under your nose—”

The teacup shattered against Dettlaff’s chest. “_ The burden of care was on you, Dettlaff!” _ She’d gone and bitten through her lip. Rivulets of blood trickled down her chin. Orianna swiped her palm roughly across her jaw and flicked the blood from her nails. “That is what a blood bond _ means! _ You wouldn’t dare to shift responsibility. You want to compare a bond of _ geography _ with...” She broke off.

They faced each other, chests heaving. Dettlaff paid no attention to the tea running down his doublet.

“You were not meant to be his keeper,” Orianna forced out, her voice hoarse. “You were meant to be his _ brother."_

Dettlaff’s voice was hollow. “I did not think he needed me.”

“It’s not about _ need _.”

Dettlaff’s form melted, retreating back into its wolven shape. The linen doll was gone, the caves and brook were gone, the china saucer and teacup were gone, the red embroidered cloth was gone, the teak table was gone.

Dettlaff looked at her mournfully, black marble eyes blinking back the ashy mist of the barren dreamscape. Orianna sighed and slid to the ground. Dettlaff curled up next to her. The wind battered his fur. _ Have you searched for him? _He asked. 

“Our history was complex, but I had no desire to see what… how Emiel did it.”

_ He would never do such a thing, _ Dettlaff repeated stubbornly. _ He is _ ** _alive_ ** _ , Orianna. I know it. _

She chuckled without mirth. “I invite you to prove me wrong.” The smile slipped off her face. “I would prefer that you prove me wrong.”

The wolf laid his head on his paws. _ I will ask the witcher. _

“I see. Then I’ll come collect your pieces to ensure you regenerate properly.” Orianna rolled her eyes at Dettlaff’s look. “The witcher will not wish to speak with you. I assume he will convey that message to you via his silver sword.”

_ It is my responsibility. _

“A bit late for that, don’t you think?” Orianna was suddenly exhausted. She flicked her hand and a mossy stone appeared at her back. She rested against it. “I can think of precious little that could cleave a vampire from the aether. Littler still that would leave said vampire alive for long after.”

Dettlaff was still. Ash gathered around his muzzle. _ I invoke my right to aid, _ he muttered in Vampiric. _ I invoke my right to the hospitality of your stone, the light of your moons, and the warmth of your blood. Such is my right. _

“Such is your right, and thus I shall render aid. The hospitality of my stone, the light of my moons, and the warmth of my blood.” Orianna repeated wearily. She waved her hand and shaped another cup of tea. “There is a sorcerer, Alewin, two days outside of Assengard, who owes me a favor. Tell him I sent you to collect the debt. He is a reliable teleporter. He will get you to Toussiant far faster than if you flew yourself.” She scowled. “Do _ not _teleport into my home, Dettlaff. You know where to go. I will send someone to collect you.”

_ Yes. _ Dettlaff’s muzzle was furrowed. _ I will arrive in Beauclair as quickly as I can. _

The wolf melted away. Orianna sat, teacup in hand, staring out into the wastes of her aether.

“He’s gone now,” Orianna said. The wind whipped her voice away. “Now we can both be alone.”


	2. THE COOK (Between Chapters 8 and 9)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"When the world collapses, something new starts to emerge from the ruins of a life. Sometimes losing who you are means finding that again."_
> 
> Regis' life has irrevocably changed. Some around him take it well. Some... not so much.
> 
> This story is a series of optional addendums to the work "The End of Gifts" by merulanoir.

The first time Geralt had found Regis in the kitchen actually using the hearth— not just chatting idly with Marlene over a cup of coffee or a loaf of bread— he’d looked at Regis like he’d grown a second head. B.B. had fretted for a week before finally asking Regis if the dishes the manor prepared were not to his taste, and Regis had tripped over himself assuring B.B. that was not the case.

First, it was hardly his fault that human cultures treated the presence of a man in the kitchen as a novelty.

Second, he got _ hungry _ now. Cooking was pleasant, even fun, in a way he’d never anticipated.

Eating had always been optional for Regis. Maintaining his corporeal from took energy, but less so than an equally sized and shaped human. Breathing, sleeping, eating— it simply served to make his human guise function more smoothly, and was infinitely more pleasant than dealing with hunger pangs. Some vampires enjoyed the act, but Regis had found it dull at best and irritating at worst. His corporeal form’s call to eat and sleep didn’t care a whit about whether he was engaged in a good book, or without food to hand, or simply too busy to take the time. It was common for him to skip meals, accidentally or purposefully. If queried on his appetite, Regis would usually just shrug and claim he forgot. Most didn’t pry. Apparently this was believable.

It was easier than admitting the truth: no food tasted as velvety smooth or sated his appetite as well as blood.

As the years of Regis’ teetotaling wore on, the types of food that he could eat without gagging dwindled exponentially. He’d sworn off red meat after a veal cutlet had triggered cravings so debilitating he’d been housebound for a week. Pork and chicken were out a year later. The dark sauces, red wines, and tomatoes so many humans gravitated toward turned his stomach. Near the end he’d been making a go at fish stews with middling success.

Except now he could _ eat, _he could eat everything, and the food was amazing.

Thanks to Marlene, there was always rich, golden, crusty bread around. The bread was springy on the inside, chewy, and soft; the crust crispy and elastic. He would spread it with a thick smear of fresh-churned salted butter, or sweet tangy jelly made from overripe grapes from Corvo Bianco’s vines, and have it alongside a cup of dark coffee. Lunch was whatever Marlene had been busy with— cold cuts of ham on cold porcelain plates, boiled potatoes with dill and cream, thick wedges of hard white cheese, briny olives imported from a tiny shop in Beauclair that stamped down their own olive oil in the back room. Dinners were smorgasbords. Hand-rolled pastas stuffed with sausage and thyme and marjoram, delicate white fish, poached eggs with a pinch of salt. Long flat crackers that snapped when you bit into them; the perfect canvas for black pepper jerky and sweet dried apricots. And there was always something sweet around, whether it got to the table or not. Buttery pastries full of chocolate that would flake apart as soon as you looked at them, glass containers chock full of candied almonds and walnuts. Once, a neighbor had sent over a stone jar in an icebox. When Geralt and Regis had opened it, they’d found it full to the brim with some cold sweet vanilla cream, solid enough that it held its shape when scooped. It was laced with tiny pieces of peppermint.

Upon reflection, it was really only a matter of time before he found himself in the kitchen. One sip of a mandrake cordial three hundred years ago had sparked a lifelong habit. Now the mandrake seemed but the first tiny step into a world he hadn’t known existed.

The only person unsurprised at Regis’ newfound culinary interest was Marlene. She’d welcomed him with open arms. A second apron had appeared a few weeks later. _ His _ apron.

Regis, slowly, made himself at home.

* * *

“Regis?”

“Hm?” Regis shook himself, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. Marlene leaned on the countertop, regarding him thoughtfully. “Yes?”

She smiled. “Simply making sure you were awake. You looked to be dozing off into your coffee.” She twisted the top off a carrot and laid it on the chopping board. “The seasons changing can affect the body’s natural rhythms.”

Regis blushed, closing his hands around the warm mug. His mind was drifting like an unmoored boat. “Forgive me. I slept poorly last night, for some reason. Perhaps the seasons, as you said.”

Marlene looked down, a thought passing in front of her eyes, but she pursed her lips and turned back to the stove. “I can put on more coffee.”

“No, thank you,” Regis winced. He’d remembered polishing off a pot a month ago and how he hadn’t slept more than an hour the following night.

Marlene crossed to Regis and sat down at the table across from him. “Here. I’ll take the celery, you take the carrots, and whoever is the less lazy can take the onions.”

“Less lazy, you say.” Regis pulled a knife from the chopping block, curling his hands carefully around the handle as Marlene instructed. Thumb and index finger on the back of the blade, the rest of his fingers curled around the handle. “Are you appealing to my better nature, Marlene? Many before you have tried and failed at such an endeavor.”

Marlene smiled primly, but a thread of mischievousness ran close to the surface. “I like to think of myself as cannier than the average person. Something about years of experience.” She paused and her expression softened. “Regis. May I ask you something?”

He blinked. “Of course. Anything.”

“Do you dream? Of... before?”

* * *

_ The wind whistled through his fur, cold and sharp. Regis blinked away the rime from his eyes and swooped gleefully downward, cutting a wide arc through the skies over Nazair. _

_It was a beautiful night, two days away from a full moon. The lake far below him was still as the grave, a looking glass for the heavens above. He could pick out his own shadow cutting across the surface of the water, a dark spot in the sky, huge and shaggy with his wings fully extended. The moon hung eagerly over the night, waiting, just waiting,_ _for _him_. It whispered soft endearments only his brethren could understand. The humans could have the sun, ball of unsubtle gases in the sky that it was. The moonlight was where the vampires basked._

_ Regis spread his wings as far as he could manage. The patagium soaked up the silvery moonlight and sent happy shivers all the way down to the tips of his claws. _

I could fall forever,_ Regis thought, giddy. _ I could freefall into the lake. _ It would hurt at first— falling from such a height would be like plummeting into hard soil. The ice would shatter off his fur, a powdery explosion on the water’s surface. The impact would feel like a full body punch; it would knock the freezing air from his lungs. And in the moment right after the pain, he’d be _ alive, _ so alive, he’d feel the blood in his veins and the pumping of his heart and the moonlight singing through his body—_

* * *

Marlene’s hand covered his warmly. Regis started, looking down at it, then looking up into Marlene’s face. Her expression was soft.

“I dream of flying,” he said, and realized his face was wet.

Marlene leaned forward and caught the edge of his apron, dabbing at his cheeks. “Was it wonderful?” she asked, sad and romantic all at once.

“It was wonderful like nothing else,” Regis said wistfully. “But it’s silly to miss it, isn’t it? My full moon days were hardly occupied with flights, they were…” They were days spent trapped in his crypt, trying to shut out the lunar voices whispering for blood. “Well, I was hardly thinking of flying. It’s hardly worth the tradeoff.” His voice was not convincing.

Marlene squeezed his hand. “It’s alright to miss it anyway.”

Regis dropped his head and let out a broken little laugh. “You’re too good to us, Marlene.” He scrubbed his face with the back of his hand. “What about you?” he asked, and he hated himself for how hopeful it sounded. “Do you… do you still…?”

“Dream?” Marlene laid the knife onto the wooden cutting board. “Oh, here and there.” She rested her chin on her hands, staring into nothingness. He realized that he had no idea _ what _ a spotted wight would have thought of her days. Was there any good moment to be squeezed out of decades of misery and death?

Regis reached out and took her hand in his. Marlene’s hands were gnarled. Her paper-thin skin was dotted with spots, the telltale signs of age. Wrinkles wrapped around her fingers like rings. Regis turned her hand upwards and rubbed his thumb against her palm comfortingly. 

“Sometimes,” Marlene said, far away. “Sometimes, I remember what it felt like... to know that I would live forever.”

“Do you still want to live forever?”

“No. Not terribly.” Marlene smiled. “You understand.”

Regis nodded his head. “It gets old after awhile, hm?”

“Doesn’t it though.” Marlene laughed. “Don’t think I much appreciated things in the same way, when you’ve got nothing but time.”

“A man with a million crowns to spend can’t possibly understand one who’s got twenty.” Regis said. The phrase rolled around in his head now, new meaning sparkling around the edges. That would be something to think over.

“True, true. And most of it wasn’t very good or fun at all. But there were bits.” Marlene’s eyes sparkled. “Bits that were alright.” She took a breath. “Even the bits that others would find quite horrible. Parts… I find horrible now. But back then…”

“Back then, those times were all we had,” Regis finished.

They fell silent for a few moments. Then, Marlene squeezed his hands again. “My good times now are cooking for family, a catnap in the afternoon, or the smell of fresh linens. You have good times to come as well, Regis.”

“I’m not terribly used to that, Marlene.”

“Well, you’ll become accustomed to it.” Marlene’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “We humans can get used to _ anything _.”


End file.
